


Love, Maya

by RamblingPug



Category: Forbidden - Tabitha Suzuma
Genre: Death, Depression, F/M, Incest, i will never get over this book, poor mental health, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 11:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6702478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RamblingPug/pseuds/RamblingPug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen years ahead, it is now Maya’s thirty-third birthday. They say time heals all wounds, but for Maya it is still open, smarting. Now, looking at the kids, all grown up, happy, she struggles to find a reason to go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love, Maya

The leaves have yellowed and the branches have bared their naked faces to the outside world.

If only I could do it like them, shed my graces so easily, say goodbye with a little bit of dignity.

“Maya, Maya!” Her slender arms squeeze me tightly, with the enthusiasm of a child. In some ways she still is, blonde and willowy, with a startling wide-eyed beauty that the world has grown to love. “... I baked it by myself, see!”

Her eyes are blue, sparkling as the ocean, and the edges of my heart crumble in apology for the pain I will put her through in the coming days. I want to tell her, prepare her for it, hold her in my arms and reassure her that she will be okay, that I had no choice, _Willa darling, there was just no other way._

I manage to hold it in, and smile and blow out the candle but when my siblings sing a happy, gloriously inharmonious version of “Happy Birthday, Maya!” I am blinded by my tears.

I'm a _cheat._ A conwoman playing at the game of happiness and dragging her family in.

Suddenly, I am filled with an overwhelming rage.

It is _you_ , that made me like this, Lochie. It is your fault that here I am, on my thirty-third birthday, in the middle of three people who love me deeply no doubt, but all I can feel is the stark absence of the love that burnt me sixteen years ago.

It's _your_ fault that I am left with nothing more than bitter exhaustion, no more love to give, not to anyone who's here to take it anyhow.

I try to tune into their conversation. Tiffin is telling us about the new model he's seeing - Willa threatens him about hurting her friend - and Linda, Kit’s wife teases him good naturedly.

Kit’s son, Neal is sitting, pooled at his feet, playing with the new remote controlled car his Uncle Tiffin bought for him.

I give into a little whim and take a picture of this moment, wanting to freeze the togetherness, the reassuring normalcy - regardless of the way Kit eyes me uncertainly, as if he _knows_ , sees the cracks waiting to splinter - of this moment. I want to bring this to you, Lochie, a snapshot of the life that should've been yours.

I hug them all, together, as they are about to leave, tightly, tears pooling in my eyes because this is the last time. Willa’s warmth, Tiffin’s laughter, Kit’s concern - he's almost like you, Lochie, with all his worry, but only _almost -_ I close my eyes and let myself be bound to this, because it is the last time I will be able to feel it.

 _I love you_ , I tell them quietly, fiercely, because later, when they feel hurt and betrayed by my selfish actions, I need them to know that I still loved them.

Kit hangs back, under the pretense of having to use the bathroom. “... Wait for me in the car. I won't even be a minute,” he tells his wife, as he hands over his son.

When he enters the kitchen, I can almost _feel_ the tension in the air. “Maya,” he says softly, “Are you… _okay?_ ”

I'm unable to turn and face him. It's as if his voice is imploring me, begging, to be of importance. My hands begin to shake.

If only I could tell him, _explain_ to him, that there's nothing he can do, nothing left to be done really, because there's nothing left of _me_ , to give, I have given them all my love, and now I feel squeezed dry with nothing more than an acute pain sharp in my chest, a tiredness overcoming my whole body, my existence reduced to little more than an irrepressible yearning for someone I lost a long time ago.

 _Can't you see, Kit? I_ have _to go._

 _“_ I’m really proud of you, Kit,” I tell him, facing him, dredging up one last smile, “Lochan would've been too.”

As he walks out the front door, the sunlight catches the tear glistening on his cheek.

When I am alone again, exhaustion overcomes me.

Did you see them Lochie? Sitting around the table, laughing, smiling, like they've never known anything horrible in their lives.  

I wrap my arms around myself, and the weight of the silver bracelet digs into my wrists. As I trace the exquisite lettering on the only piece of you that you have left me, I have never felt more of a disgrace.

Here I am, alive, breathing, stealing the love that should have rightfully been yours.

It's you, Lochan, it's all you, you're the reason, we made it this far, why any of us even had a second chance at life. You made it possible, and now you're not even here to see it.

The worst part, is that sometimes I think they feel the same way, that they know who is responsible, who's always been responsible for any good in their lives, and they try to tell you, through me.

Sometimes I fear they see _you_ in me, Lochan, and I'm almost beside myself with envy.

I want to see you too, Lochie.

But I am too tired to do this anymore, too tired to carry the weight of two people in my strained soul.

I am old now, and it seems the evil seed of complacency has begun to germinate within me, selfishness an entity that grows _with_ you.

I've done good, Lochie, haven't I? Haven't I done what you wanted?

The children are so happy now, they're not even children more, they're bright beautiful stars, that have found their trail to blaze.

Willa is grown now, twenty-four, tall and willowy, and her beauty is no longer just ours to see.

Tiffin, is headstrong and talented, every bit what his coach had predicted out of him, and a small cult of Tiffin-worshippers has developed in the city.

Kit... Well Kit is barely the Kit from when you fought with him. He has grown the most, I feel, more than even me. He has a family now, one who he is completely devoted to, a pleasant, gracious wife and a little boy, dark haired and light eyed and it is a resemblance that breaks my heart whenever he comes to me.

Their residence, as expected of a school PE teacher, is modest, not much more than the house which we grew up in, but the aura is a striking contrast.

It is a warm little house, just like it's inhabitants, and unlike ours which screamed secrets and despair, there is not one corner that doesn't scream love.

Sometimes it is I that feel out of place, me that feels like I weigh them down, holding them back from their true potential.

It is my smiles that dampen theirs, never quite reaching my eyes, never shining from within.

_No more._

A strange mania is settling down on me; I can sense it. A vivid buzz, an energy I haven't felt in years, sweeping through my body as I rummage frantically through the cutlery drawer.

It's my birthday, Lochie, and you aren't here to give me anything.

So it's only fair, I think, that I gift myself something.

I make my way to my little place, the one that I shared with you, all those years ago, the one that I hoped I would share with you forever, and the little spring in my step is _real._

It's been years since I visited this little clearing, but thankfully, it has remained untouched. I never came back here because it had ceased to be _my_ secret place to me, just a rush of memories, of you, of me, your dark hair, and your cracked lips, and the way they felt, rough, urgent like there was nothing else but the here and now, that we were free and in love, and there was nothing that could ever feel more right.

This is all I can think of as I reach into my coat pocket and feel the grip of the meat knife. That I want it, I want _you,_ I want to feel that reckless thrill of being alive. And the only of way feeling that is with you, Lochie… Even if it means being dead.

The pain is cathartic, the blood rushing to be freed of its veined cages, and I can feel its abandon, pouring swiftly out of me,  it's happiness as it runs from my body.

It's a numbing, overwhelming sensation.

Already I have begun to _feel,_ a small part of me - the part that is still alive,constant, the one still aware of the burn that has consumed me - feels guilt for not saying goodbye to the little ones.

But the rest - this part that I know much better, the one that died so many many years ago - feels a rush of excitement.

You have to understand, Lochie, that today I am _happy._

Today, I have hope.

That when I open my eyes again, I will see you, your eyes, your hair, your lips.

I will see _you_ , Lochan, and that is all I'll ever need. 

**Author's Note:**

> … I deserve all the hate mail. *hides*


End file.
